


In A Lonely City

by bag_of_catZY (catZY)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, BAMF Stiles, Detective Stiles, Fight Club - Freeform, Future Fic, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 10:01:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9603131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catZY/pseuds/bag_of_catZY
Summary: It’s been years since Jackson left Beacon Hills. He’s been in London finally figuring out who he is, as a man and as a werewolf. He’s just moved back to the States, specifically NYC, for his new job. His coworkers take him to an underground alpha fight club, where one of the fighters is the last person Jackson expects to see: Stilinski.Stilinski has grown out of his skinny awkwardness and into his full potential, and not just physically. He’s a paranormal detective, a spark, and a friend or foe to the various seedy and fantastic characters of the city’s magical underbelly. As Jackson’s fascination with Stilinski grows, he becomes more and more entangled in Stilinski’s world and adventures.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I rated this story as Teen and Up because even though sex and violence occur, neither is described graphically. Please let me know if you think I should make this rating higher. I also marked this story as No Archive Warnings Apply even though Jackson briefly wonders at the beginning if the sex involved in the fight club is fully enthusiastically consented to. If you think I should mark the Rape warning or use the Dub-con tag, please let me know.
> 
> I rarely read A/B/O AU stories because I generally dislike inherently unequal relationships and non-enthusiastic consent between the main pairing. So, even though Stiles is an omega in this story, he is not a slave to his heats. He chooses his friends and lovers freely. There are some characters who give him crap for being an omega, but none of those are people he is close with. So, if you’re here for heat fic smut, I’d say stick around anyway, you might still like it. Enjoy! 

Jackson should have said no. He would have, if he hadn’t just transferred from London to New York a week ago—and it wasn’t very smart for the new guy to give the wrong impression by turning down his coworkers’ first invite for some after work bonding.

Why couldn’t his coworkers have invited him to a bar, or some other equally innocuous form of social engagement and entertainment? No, instead they had dragged him to what appeared to be some kind of pretty sketchy after hours fight club. Even worse, an alpha fight club.  Jackson’s stomach churned uneasily. He kind of hated his coworkers for bringing him here and he hated himself even more for staying.

Even though high school was long behind him, Jackson still had the impulse to fit in, the desire to be liked even by people he didn’t like. So, even though he technically could make any of a variety excuses and leave ( _he wasn’t feeling well, he was bored, he had moral objections, etc_.), he stayed. He had a feeling this was some kind of test, and he had another feeling it was going to be a long few years working in this lonely city if he didn’t pass. He didn’t give a shit about Kirby, Goldman, or Richards, but he still wanted their good opinion.

Jackson said the least minimum to stay in conversation with the other three. They kept giving him covert glances that were half excited, half smug. They clearly knew something about the fights that they weren’t telling him and that they expected to shock him.

He was too busy trying very hard not to wrinkle his nose at the overly pungent smell of sweat and alpha pheromones to be bothered by the mystery. He wished Goldman hadn’t insisted on sitting in the front row. They were way too close to the ring and to Jackson’s sensitive nose, it hadn’t been cleaned thoroughly enough.

When the first two fighters were announced, Jackson barely paid attention to their stage names or the fight. The fighting was passable, but seriously, Jackson was a werewolf. It took more than two moderately skilled human fighters to impress him. When the lighter haired one was knocked out a few minutes later, Jackson almost yawned in boredom. His coworkers seemed weirdly excited for such a mediocre bout.

Jackson’s apathy was shocked right out of him a moment later when the winner grabbed the still dazed loser by the waist, flipped him over onto his front, pulled down his shorts, and sank his dick in without a by your leave as if there weren’t a good few hundred people watching. Now Jackson understood his coworkers’ weird looks and excitement.

The crowd went wild at the sight of the fucking, even wilder than they had gotten for the fighting. If Jackson had thought the crowd’s bloodlust had been ugly to see and smell, then their plain old lust was even worse. Microphones around the ring amplified the grunting and swearing. Jackson couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this uncomfortable.

Kirby nudged him. “Aren’t you glad we invited you?” Kirby asked while wiggling his eyebrows in a repulsive manner.

Jackson faked one of his flawless business smiles.

Satisfied with his response, Kirby turned back to watching the show.

Jackson was practically gagging with the smell of everyone’s arousal. God, this was grotesque. Sure, he watched porn every now and then, but this felt different. It was like watching animals fucking in a cage in the zoo. No, even worse. It was practically like watching rape. Sure, maybe both of the guys knew what they were signing up for. But could either of them really say no at this stage? Especially considering the guy on the bottom likely had a concussion. Jackson was a big fan of enthusiastic consent and he doubted this spectacle qualified.

Jackson wondered if he should slip away and call the cops. Fight club was bad enough. But fuck club? Fuck fitting in with his coworkers. After seeing this, Jackson didn’t really want those three fuckers as friends anyway. And yet…

Even though this situation didn’t have the right parameters for totally enthusiastic consent, these fighters were adults. Maybe they needed the money and this was how they chose to get it. Jackson had never personally hired a prostitute, but he’d definitely seen them before, and considering they’d all been adults, he hadn’t ever called the cops on them. Before he could reach a decision, the two men had finished, cleared out of the ring, and the next two fighters were being announced.

Something niggled at the back of his mind at the second fighter’s name, “Little Red Riding Hood”. There was something familiar about it, more than just in the way of a children’s fairytale.

Two fighters entered from opposite sides of the ring. One was tanned, dark-haired, and huge. His shirtless chest rippled with muscles almost obscenely. Jackson half wondered if the man was a werewolf—he was fitter than half of them. The other was almost slender and waifish in comparison. He was wearing a red hoodie so Jackson couldn’t clearly see his face. When the man shed his hoodie, Jackson’s heart almost stopped.

It couldn’t be. This was the last place Jackson had expected to see someone from Beacon Hills. How had Stilinski ended up here, at an alpha fight club, especially when Stiles wasn’t an alpha?

Jackson scrutinized those familiar features, looking for changes. Same honey eyes and constellations of moles. Sharper cheekbones. And he’d put on muscle so he didn’t look all gangly and skinny anymore. The biggest change was probably the way he held himself. Gone was the jittery, awkward teenager. There was a confidence and purpose in his limbs and his movements.

Stilinski was moving around the ring, turning to blow kisses and throw winks at the audience. The crowd went wild for it. When Stilinski finally turned to Jackson’s section of the crowd, Jackson hoped Stilinski wouldn’t recognize him. No such luck. The moment their eyes made contact, Stilinski froze in surprise. Stilinski was the first to recover. He gave Jackson a sarcastic little wave and then turned back to his opponent.

When the fight started, Jackson watched with bated breath, ready to run into the ring to save Stilinski. Sure, there was no love lost between the two of them, but Jackson definitely didn’t want to see him beaten half to death and then fucked. Besides, any animosity between them was half a lifetime ago, just petty high school bullshit.

But if Jackson expected Stilinski to need saving, boy was he in for a surprise. Stilinski had sucked at anything physical in high school, had spent most of his time at lacrosse practices and games bench-warming. But somehow, he had finally learned to fight in the intervening years since. Jackson watched in awe as Stilinski nimbly danced away from hits and then dived back in for return jabs.

In a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it move, Stilinski isolated one of his opponent’s arms, pulled him down using his opponent’s own forward momentum from a lunge, and wrapped his own legs around his opponent’s neck in a lock. They struggled fiercely together on the floor of the ring before his opponent tapped out. Stiles finally loosened his legs and released him. His opponent lay on the floor, red in the face and gasping for air.

Stilinski popped up to his feet and started jumping around the ring, pumping his fist in victory and gesturing for the crowd to scream louder in adulation. He grinned at the pure wall of noise from all sides. As he moved from side to side, at one point, he caught Jackson’s eyes and winked at him. Jackson’s breath caught in his throat against his will. The last thing he expected to ever associate with Stilinski was sex appeal. And yet. That easy confidence and victory flush was pretty fucking sexy.

Pretty soon though, the crowd started yelling at him to get on with the second part of the bout. Stilinski made placating and shushing gestures. After just a minute or two, an expectant hush descended upon the crowd.

Stilinski skipped back to his downed opponent, who had by now recovered and was laying on his back watching Stilinski approach.

“Ready to be debauched?” Stilinski asked jokingly. He spoke at a normal volume, but the microphones around the rings picked up his words and broadcasted them to the entire audience.

Since Stilinski’s back was facing Jackson, Jackson could only imagine the ridiculous eyebrow wiggling Stilinski was doing—or had he outgrown that, too?

Stilinski’s opponent put his hands behind his head and leaned back faux casually. “Debauched? I’m not really sure you’re up for that.”

Stilinski clucked his tongue. “Oh, Tommy, you should know better. I’m always up for it.”

Despite the bad porn dialogue, Jackson actually felt something warm stir in his gut, whereas he had felt nothing during the first bout.

And then Stilinski pulled off a move so smooth Jackson wouldn’t have thought him capable of in a million years. Stilinski dropped down but caught himself by his arms in a push-up so he was aligned perfectly with Tommy below him. Stilinski slotted their mouth together and gave Tommy a kiss that was more ravishment than kiss. Jackson squirmed uncomfortably in his seat.

Half the crowd was cheering and half the crowd was heckling him to get on with the fucking. Stilinski didn’t seem to notice, wrapped up in kissing Tommy like they were the only two in the room. When Stilinski finally pulled away, Tommy looked dazed.

Stilinski whispered, “Roll over.”

Tommy didn’t protest, seemed eager even, and rolled over. Stilinski slipped his right hand into the back of his own shorts and it didn’t take a great imagination to figure out what was happening there. Jackson wasn’t confused over the _what_ , but rather the _why_. He had assumed after the first bout that the victor fucked the loser. But maybe that wouldn’t be the case with Stilinski because he wasn’t an alpha?

Stilinski drew his hand back out, which gleamed under the harsh lighting. Christ. Stilinski was in pre-heat? And fighting alphas? Were there no bounds to Stilinski’s recklessness?

And then Stilinski drew down Tommy’s shorts and fingered Tommy open with his own slick. Stilinski was so gentle that it was almost like they were lovemaking instead of fucking for entertainment in front of hundreds of people.

When Stilinski finally sank in, it seemed like the entire audience released a harmonious sigh of pleasure along with the two fighters. Jackson was mesmerized by the soft and steady rhythm of Stilinski’s hips. Dear lord, Jackson was never going to be able to unsee this.

By the time Stilinski had gotten both his partner and himself to climax, Jackson had resorted desperately to thinking about his stint as a murderous mind-controlled lizard to prevent his slacks from tenting.

Jackson’s mind was swamped with an uncomfortable mix of emotions: confused lust and guilt and disgust. He felt like he had fallen through the rabbit hole. Nothing made sense anymore, least of Stilinski. The next few bouts passed by in a daze.

Jackson only snapped back to full attention again when Stilinski came back on the ring for the final bout against an alpha not that much bigger than him. Looks were pretty deceiving, however, and it was clear fairly quickly that Stilinski had met his match. With a head-rattling punch, his opponent knocked him down to the ring floor before a minute had passed.

Stilinski had always been scrappy. He’d always been able to take a punch. Jackson wondered if that ability had been something innate or if Stilinski had learned how as an untrained human running around with wolves.

It seemed Stilinski had only gotten scrappier over the years. He kept popping back up, grin bloody and taunting even as he was losing. It got to the point that Jackson was half-hoping Stilinski would just lie down and admit defeat, even if it meant getting fucked by this brute of an opponent, to save himself before he received a hit he couldn’t recover from.

Stilinski’s opponent seemed to be of the same mind. The next time Stilinski was knocked down, his opponent didn’t wait to see if he was getting back up; instead, his opponent leapt at him while he was still on the mat, teeth bared and aiming for his throat. Jackson jumped up, ignoring his coworkers’ exclamations of surprise, ready to either save Stilinski or exact vengeance.

Jackson was brought up short when all Stilinski’s opponent did was carefully clamp his teeth around Stilinski’s throat, firm enough to hold Stilinski still but not tight enough to cause bleeding. Stilinski bared his throat and moaned, whole body going limp. Jackson flushed at that moan. Christ. Nobody should be allowed to sound like that, least of all Stilinski.

Stilinski’s opponent pulled down both of their shorts just enough to get the job done and then sank in without further ado. Jackson stood with frozen stillness while Stilinski moaned and gasped and panted his way to completion. His opponent finished shortly after, and then quickly pulled out, tucked himself back in, and left the ring.

Stilinski lay on the mat for a few moments more, trying to get his heaving breath back under control. Jackson couldn’t look away from the bright red ring of teeth imprints pressed into the delicate skin of Stilinski’s throat. Once Stilinski was breathing more or less normally, he pulled his shorts back up and ducked out of the ring. He deftly dodged the bolder members of the audience who tried to reach out and touch him and quickly disappeared into a hallway in the back, presumably where the offices and locker rooms were.

Jackson started following after Stilinski when an impertinent hand grasped at him to stop him. He nearly turned around and snarled at whoever dared touch him, but thankfully, he had more control over the wolf than that. He glanced over his shoulder and arched a cool eyebrow at Kirby.

“Where are you going?” Kirby demanded.

Jackson slowly and deliberately pointed his gaze at Kirby’s hand on his arm. Kirby nervously drew his hand back, doing a piss poor job of hiding his discomfort.

Jackson said shortly, “I’ve got some business with one of the fighters.”

Kirby looked surprised before his mouth widened into an unattractive smirk. “The omega?”

Jackson shrugged and said, “Don’t wait up. I’ll see you in the office on Monday.”

And then Jackson hurried towards the back, not wanting to miss Stilinski. Kirby hollered, full of bawdy humor, something at him about ‘wanting a piece of rough’. Jackson ignored the dickhead.

Once Jackson was in the hallway, he let his nose guide him to the locker room. He didn’t know Stilinski well enough to pick him out by smell, but the scent of pre-heat was easy to distinguish and presumably Stilinski was the only omega here. The smell of male body sweat and bleach assaulted his nose as he opened the locker room door.

Most of the fighters glanced up at Jackson’s entrance and then went back to whatever they were doing. The only who approached him was the guy Stiles had called Tommy.

Tommy crossed his impressive biceps and loomed menacingly. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for Stilinski.” At Tommy’s raised eyebrow, Jackson clarified just in case Stilinski went by a different name here, “The guy fighting as ‘Little Red Riding Hood’?”

“And what do you want from Stiles?” Tommy’s glower sharpened.

Jackson nearly sighed in exasperation at all this posturing. “We’re old friends.” Though, perhaps ‘friends’ was stretching it a bit.

Tommy scoffed. “Right. Like I haven’t heard that before.”

Jackson was just starting to wonder if he would have to fight Mr. Muscles when a familiar voice interrupted.

“Hey, Tommy, relax. Jackson and I used to go to high school together.” And then those honey brown eyes turned to Jackson and examined him curiously. “Jackson, what are you doing here?”

 _What was he doing here?_ Now that Stilinski was standing before him, Jackson honestly had no idea what he had hoped to accomplish by chasing after him. They were nothing to each other. Jackson had treated Stilinski like shit in high school and Stilinski had tried to kill him during the whole kanima debacle. They were definitely not friends.

Yet something had seized Jackson as soon as he’d seen Stilinski and hadn’t let go of him since. Maybe it was a vague yearning for something familiar in this lonely city. Maybe Jackson wanted a second chance to know the man Stilinski had become. Whatever the reason, now Jackson was standing in front of Stilinski, at a loss for words and looking like a total idiot.

Stilinski sighed. “Come on, let’s go talk elsewhere. Just let me get dressed.”

Jackson nodded and went to go stand by the door. Stilinski casually dropped the towel wrapped around his waist and started pulling on jeans and a tee shirt. Jackson averted his gaze, which was kind of ridiculous considering he’d already seen Stilinski have sex in public twice now. Once Stilinski was fully dressed and had his duffle bag on one shoulder, Tommy stopped him with a gentle hand.

“You gonna be okay with this guy?” Tommy whispered, not knowing that Jackson’s super senses made it impossible to have private conversations in his vicinity.

Stilinski laughed. “Jackson? He’s a puppy.” Stilinski on the other hand knew Jackson could hear. “You worry too much, Tommy.”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, I know, you can take care of yourself.”

“Well, I sure hope you know it after I kicked your ass out there tonight.”

Tommy huffed fondly.

Stilinski switched tracks and said, “Hey, I think my heat’s going to properly start by Sunday. You still down for me to come over?”

“Of course.”

“Okay. Good. See you then.”

Stilinski and Tommy exchanged quick goodbyes and then, Stilinski walked out with Jackson into the night.

Despite feeling pretty weird about everything else that had happened tonight, Jackson was glad he had found Stilinski again. Jackson wasn’t usually very sentimental about his old life back in Beacon Hills, but meeting Stilinski again was reopening a lot of doors he thought had been welded shut. Whether this meeting was for good or for ill, only time would tell.


End file.
